


Time and Tide Wait for No Man

by MaybeSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, F/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeSherlock/pseuds/MaybeSherlock
Summary: John's head was pounding, they seemed to be spinning like a top in the middle of the ocean. Mary's fright rang in his ears as he scanned the debris field; the carnage of war flashed into John's soul. Another boom of lightening and thunder wreaked the skies, and John saw it: the small flashing red light of the survival raft.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 89
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story inspired by Castaway, the movie, and in turn Robinson Cruso. I'm slowly putting pieces together for the story, so I'm not sure yet how long or what direction it will be going. I'll try and stay a chapter outline ahead so when I do have free time for writing, I'll be ahead of the game. 
> 
> Forgive me if the "stranded on a desert island" story line has been overdone, but I couldn't help myself from adding my story to the mountain of contributions. 
> 
> As always, your thoughts and comments greatly appreciated!

"Mary!" Dr. John Watson shouted the second his face broke the surface. "M--Mary!!" John shouted again, spitting out the salt water that splashed in his mouth. The buoyancy of the airplane seat was only just adequate in the turbulent sea. John kicked his feet hard to peer over the sharp and pitching waves. Flames from the tarnished plane floated all around them, but through fire and the darkness, John saw Mary waving her arm in the air and seeming to be calling out. She was only ten yards away, but they were unable to hear each other over the cacophony of the storm. John's panic subsided briefly with the knowledge of her survival, but sank the next second when he knew Sherlock, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and the pilot's whereabouts were unknown.

John swam to her as fast as the sea would allow and desperately embraced her, causing them to sink somewhat into the water. Mary was holding on to a floating piece of rubble, fear and panic blazing in her eyes. "John! John! My god...Where are the others!?" she yelled over the storm and screamed when a bolt of lightning struck overhead. Mary cried out the names of the others, but they both knew the calamity of the storm only allowed her voice to carry a few feet from them.

John's head was pounding, they seemed to be spinning like a top in the middle of the ocean. Mary's fright rang in his ears as he scanned the debris field; the carnage of war flashed into John's soul. Another boom of lightening and thunder wreaked the skies, and John saw it: the small flashing red light of the survival raft. "Mary! Over there! Someone's made it!" John said over the storm, hysteria in his voice. "Can you swim alright? I can still see it! It can't be more than a few hundred feet away!"

They kicked and struggled against current, wind, and rain, but with each passing moment John knew they were getting closer and with another flash of lightening he saw the beacon was no longer bobbing and pitching with the waves...A dark and massive outline of a mountain rose high above the flashing red light, land...the island the captain was gunning for when the plane was struck. 

John and Mary fought the breakers of the reef and swam another hundred yards before their feet touched the sand. Exhausted though they were, they ran up the shore to the moored raft.

"Sherlock!" John yelled when he saw Sherlock's battered body. Fire had singed away half of Sherlock's shirt and left angry red and blistering wounds on the side of his chest, shoulder, and along the right side of his face. "Holy shit...Sherlock!" John called out again, the storm was now far away enough that his loud voice woke Sherlock. 

"John...John?! Mary!" he exclaimed when he came too, but when he attempted to raise himself up from the raft, Sherlock cried out in pain, reached to support his right shoulder, and when he saw the burned flesh he cursed. "Fuck!"

"Sherlock, stop. Lie back down...Don't touch your shoulder," Mary said soothingly. "You have burns everywhere." John knew why she had to say this rather obvious advice; people who have sustained deep burns do not actually feel the pain immediately as the superficial nerves of the skin have been burned away. 

Sherlock looked up at her and Mary cringed at the sight of him. The light of the moon and stars was now clear of the storm clouds and she got a good look. Evidently, his face must have hit something solid and burning. Sherlock's right eye was bloodshot to the point of filling the whole sclera, giving his light eyes an unbalanced and possessed look. The side of his face was swollen and torn with the force of impact and the burned skin shone bright against his gray pallor.

"No..." Sherlock grunted and made to stand again, this time with John and Mary on his left side, gingerly helping him out of the raft. "It's my shoulder. I think it's, AH!" he exclaimed when John sat him down on the sand. Mary kneeled beside him, now trying to examine Sherlock's burns. "It may be broken, or dislocated...I can't tell." Sherlock took a deep breath, blinked out the irritation of the saltwater and soot, looked up at John and asked in a hoarse voice. "Is there anyone else, John? Did anyone else survive?" 

John fell to his knees, "I don't know. It was so dark...I was lucky to--" John's voice cracked and he looked at Mary. "--I was lucky to find Mary. She was only a little ways away from me and the fire..." Mary reached for John and embraced him, both of them sobbing with relief that the other was alive.

Feeling light headed and dazed, Sherlock watched John and Mary hold on to each other. The sky was becoming lighter and he looked up to the horizon. Blazing red, pink, and gold clouds glowed beautifully in stark contrast with the dangerous reality of their situation. The now soft breeze raked across the charred flesh of Sherlock's skin, hitting him with a wave of pain. He inhaled sharply and his shoulder joint tensed in pain with the sudden movement of Sherlock's rib cage. Darkness creeped into the edges of his vision even as the sun peeked above the edge of the ocean. He was thankfully unconscious before fell onto his injured side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support!
> 
> I'm taking some liberties with the storyline of when and how it fits into the series. It takes place just after Sherlock returns from exile, before Mary and John get pregnant/married, and the Tom-thing never happened. Some things may be out of character...but hey, this is just for fun, so go with it!

"Say that again," Mycroft said in a slow, quiet whisper.

"The plane, sir," the agent replied, keeping his voice level, "It went down." Thinking it better to continue before Mr. Holmes had a chance to interject, the agent went on with the bad news. "Our systems lost it east of the Philippines and north of Papua Niugini. There was a storm, borderline typhoon in the western Pacific; took out communications and radar. Marking the point where we first lost contact and given the scale of the storm," here the agent paused. "We are are searching a roughly one thousand mile radius."

Mycroft reached back with a shaking hand and sat himself heavily down in his desk chair. Allowing himself to break ranks, the agent said, "I am sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"Sorry...?" Mycroft Holmes said in a threatening tone. "Sorry!? Get the Pacific fleet on that area, NOW!"

"Yes, sir!" the agent's automated replay blurted from his mouth, "I mean, sir, it has already been deployed, but..." The agent steeled himself to deliver the devastating news. "That is roughly an area the size of Europe." 

Mycroft sighed, stood and faced the window, "Why the HELL did that pilot fly into a storm of that size!?" He rounded on the agent, his glare demanding answers.

"The storm was on a relatively predictable track, and the pilot's trajectory was taking them just ahead and south of the storm, but it--the storm that is--gained speed and turned south," the agent cautiously explained. 

Mycroft turned again to the window and spoke to himself, "He had to take them...Just had to let sentiment overcome him and take them all, 'on a holiday.' No doubt it was John's idea." The agent looked nervously around the room, unsure of whether he was being addressed and if he should reply. "'The ones that count, the ones that mattered the most,'" Mycroft repeated Sherlock's words.

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"An early wedding present for John and Mary," Sherlock said and when questioned about why Sherlock and the others were invited if it was for an affianced couple, Sherlock replied with a hint of guilt, "I thought--I thought it would be a nice gesture given that I almost got them killed. They are my friends, Mycroft." Sherlock had said the last with reluctant pride. 

"And why Dr. Hooper?" Mycroft jeered. "She was not included in LAZARUS..." He watched Sherlock process what was implied and smiled coyly at Sherlock. 

"She was an essential part of the plan and put herself at great risk of being discovered--" Sherlock said, deciding not to acknowledge the implication, but was interrupted.

"But why Molly, Sherlock?" Mycroft repeated more softly and understandingly. Mycroft had decided that if his brother was to give into sentiment, he would definitely need help navigating its deceptive corners. Having given into the weakness himself many decades ago, Mycroft knew it was finally time for Sherlock to do the same. 

Caught off guard, Sherlock was compelled to confide in his brother, his mentor, his friend, "She's always counted, even if Moriarty didn't see it, and I've always trusted her."

"Why, Sherlock?" Mycroft pursued.

"She..." Sherlock hesitated, inexpertly searching for words to describe his feelings. "She sees me: like, like John sees me," Sherlock voiced, pausing to reflect on the abstract idea. 

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Recalling himself from the memory of their conversation, Mycroft steeled his welling sadness and addressed the agent once more, "I am aware of the odds of survival and the narrow timeframe we are working with. I will expect a progress report within the hour. You are dismissed." When the agent left, Mycroft picked up the phone and as it rang in his ear, he still did not have the right words to inform his parents about what happened.

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Molly watched the sun rise in front of her, due east. It was truly beautiful, the sun reflected like golden stars on the calm waters and the blushing clouds dotted the blue sky, but Molly's blank stare saw none of it. All her mind could hold on to at the moment was the last thing she saw before the plane went down.

Sherlock had left the safety of his seat to retrieve the two survival packs from the front of the plane. He had given her one, fought his way to the back of the plane in order to give the other to John and Mary, but before he could join her at the front of the plane to take his seat, a great turbulent of air made him grip one of the setbacks to keep from falling down. Molly had just turned to look down the aisle to be sure the others were okay and saw Sherlock's frightened eyes lock with hers. That is when the plane made impact with the water, burst into flames, and tore in two.

Silent tears were falling and she made no noise to compete with the soft waves lapping against the debris that was washing ashore. The warming atmosphere stirred a gentle breeze, chilling her tear streaked face. Exhausted, Molly was unable to summon the desire to collect herself. She had run up and down the beach all night, calling out for the others, shouting with all her strength against the storm. All she had found was the bloated dead body of the pilot. 

The sun was now fully risen, the driving force of thirst awoke her thoughts from despair and loss to survival. Water was not hard to find, a small stream fed into the ocean roughly 40 yards from where she sat next to the dead pilot. Without emotion, functioning solely on her skills as a pathologist and strength of adrenalin, Molly walked back to the body after rinsing her face several times in the cool stream and drug up the body of Captain Harold Freeman off the beach as far in to the brush as she dared to venture; he had introduced himself as, Harry, Molly recalled. Methodically, she removed his clothing, dryly thinking she may be here for a while and will need more clothing than what she wore; a meager blouse, jumper, and yoga pants. 

In no way would she be able to dig a grave in the ground, it was packed and rocky, covered in foliage, and regardless; she had no spade. Molly picked a low area, surrounded by fern bushes, and began collecting suitable stones to cover the body for a tumulus. It was strenuous, but the physical labor fueled her thoughts from her situation and the loss of the others. John, Mary, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and...Sherlock.

She had finally gotten there, Sherlock. He had only just returned and the whole two years she had worried for him, kept his secret, waited. Molly remembered when he surprised her in the hospital locker room; he hugged her, lifted her off her feet, spun her round, and laughed fully and deeply. It was the happiest she had ever seen Sherlock, and the happiest she had ever felt. She placed another stone over the captain. 

When Sherlock had handed her her ticket for the group holiday, he made no attempt to hide his boyish grin; he was almost giddy and gave her another thrilling hug, saying in her ear as he held her, "You've always counted, Molly Hooper." Tears were running freely and joined the sweat rolling down her face. Molly screamed and threw the last stone when she remembered when he took his seat next to her on the plane and reached out to hold her hand in his. She kicked and tore at the ferns and plants around her, "You bastard! You stupid fool!" Molly knew these words were not solely directed at Sherlock, but herself as well. She fell to the ground and wept until she fell asleep. 

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Mary squeezed the torn and burnt fabric of Sherlock's shirt and the salt water washed away some of the sand in the wound on his shoulder. When she went back to the water, John took advantage of Sherlock's unconsciousness and palpated his injured shoulder. Dislocated right shoulder, second and third degree burns covering roughly 10% of his body, and likely a right orbital fracture John added when he lifted Sherlock's eyelid and saw the bruising around the eye socket. 

When Mary returned with the sodden fabric to rinse more sand from Sherlock's burns, John said stoically, "Mary, we have to replace his shoulder. It would be best we do it while he is unconscious."

Wringing the fabric out over Sherlock, Mary replied as if he had made a request at the surgery, "Yes, of course." Mary positioned herself holding Sherlock's torso from behind, his head dropping back on her shoulder, and John gently took Sherlock's arm. He began pulling lightly at first, but when he increased the tension, Sherlock moaned in protest. 

"Quickly, John! He is starting to wake up," Mary said urgently. She struggled to keep hold of Sherlock's body as John increased the tension. John felt Sherlock begin to flex his previously lax muscles; it was do it now or do this with Sherlock fully conscious. John gave a strong tug, felt the shoulder slip into place, and Sherlock cried out in pain.

John lost his balance when he released Sherlock's arm, and Mary held Sherlock fast as he panted with panic and pain. "Shh! It's okay, Sherlock. It's in, it's over," Mary soothed and he settled somewhat. "John, why don't you check that inlet over there and see if we can drink that water flowing out? Sherlock, can you sand? You and I need to clean out the sand from your burns, and it's a good time to do it with your current high levels of adrenalin: this is going to hurt a bit," Mary said as she felt Sherlock's rapid heartbeat against her. 

John hesitated a moment, but quickly picked up on what Mary was saying; the adrenaline would help dull the pain and if the burn gets infected it could mean death for Sherlock. Mary walked Sherlock into the warm tropical water, he was breathing fast and his stare was blank. "Sherlock?" Mary said, pulling him back to reality. "I asked if you wanted to talk about it. Get ready, I'm going to have to scrub this part."

Sherlock drew in a quick breath, gritted his teeth against the pain, and released a gasping breath when Mary made to soak the fabric in the water. "The only thing needing discussion is our survival and the odds of rescue," Sherlock panted during the reprieve from her scrubbing.

"Come off it," Mary scoffed attempting to put on a brave face. "I've saw you two the past couple of days, even John's picked up on it." Mary chucked feebly and wiped away a tear when she thought about the love loss between her friends: Molly, finally getting her heart's desire after all this time, and Sherlock, at long last tearing down the walls that guarded his heart. She could not help it, grief overcame her and she cried for them all: poor Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and the pilot even though she had no connection with him. 

Sherlock held her for a moment, for she had thrown her arms carefully around him and sobbed into his good shoulder. Although he had admitted to himself he was changing in the way he felt sentiment, Sherlock was at a loss of what to say, but of course, there was nothing to say and he held her tighter. Surprisingly, Sherlock found that Mary's expressed grief had given him purpose to regain himself, to be comforting to his friend in their time of loss. "I know," Sherlock shushed, grief choking him, "I know..."

Sherlock and Mary looked up when they felt a heavy hand on their shoulders, "Sherlock, I think if you dunk your head two or three times, it will clear the rest of the sand." There was something flat in his voice, hallow. "I'll need your help..." John's voice cracked, "I've found Mrs. Hudson."


	3. Chapter 3

John carried Mrs. Hudson's small body up the sandy bank and into the forest. Mary and Sherlock followed him, their heads hung low with grief. 

After a few yards, the thick jungle opened up into a small green valley, roughly the size of a football field. A craggy wall of black rock rose thirty feet above the soft grass at the far end of the field, and a mountain two thousand feet rose high above it all.

They all paused in the sudden sunshine, blinking the light out of their eyes as they looked up at the towering mountain. 

"She couldn't ask for a more beautiful place to be lain to rest," John said and his voice seemed muted by an ancient atmosphere that had never heard a spoken language. 

"Over there," Sherlock pointed with a shaking hand to the edge of the field where the sun would shine all day, the shadow of the mountain never reaching it. His voice was horse and he wavered in a very un-Sherlock-way when he began leading them through the clearing to Mrs. Hudson's final resting place.

Sherlock proceeded as if on auto pilot, insisting his weak and shaking knees go on. John had wrapped Sherlock's shirt around his middle, pinning his injured arm folded across Sherlock's abdomen; a sling would have rubbed painfully over a burn on his chest. Small beads of sweat suddenly formed over his exposed skin, though Sherlock felt cold and clammy. 

John cocked his eyebrow in Mary's direction, silently questioning her if she was seeing the same thing. Mary nodded, understanding. 

"Sherlock," Mary said with concern, he stopped and turned to face them, "Why don't you take a break here. John and I can manage." Surprisingly, he uncharacterstically did what she asked. He took a rather hard knee to the ground, and Mary helped to lean him back against a smooth rock. "John," Mary said and lifted Sherlock's eyelid and felt the pulse at his neck, he did not protest at the examination, "Let's be quick, I don't want to leave him long."

"Go, I'll be fine," Sherlock said with a weak attempt at sounding actually fine. "My body is merely going into shock." He paused to catch his breath. "The concussion and inflammatory response of my injuries..." Sherlock stopped, licked his dry lips and continued his assessment, "...is interfering with my body's ability to regulate my temperature...blood pressure..." His head fell back against the stone and he blinked up at John's worried face, "...and...John, you'll need to elevate my legs after I pass out... this...time." 

Mary gently guided Sherlock's head to the ground. "Mary, stay with him. I'll be back after I've buried Mrs. Hudson," John said with authority born of his army days and he marched on to the spot Sherlock had picked out. 

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A few hours later when John returned with red eyes and a heavy heart, it was to find Sherlock unconscious where he fell with his feet and knees raised and resting atop a few flat rocks, and Mary busily organizing the debris from the plane she had been collecting.

"It's done," John said sadly and Mary stopped her progress, hugged John, and blinked tears from her eyes. "I'm really going to miss that woman." 

After a moment, John released the comfort of Mary's arms and turned to look at Sherlock, "Has he been out this whole time?" John asked, wiping at his cheeks. 

Thankful for the change of topic, Mary replied, "He woke briefly maybe an hour ago and asked for water." Here she handed John a water bottle and he looked down at it, shocked. "I found it washed up along with some clothing I'm assuming were...were Greg's," Mary stammered, but held it together; her grief for the loss of Mrs. Hudson was so fresh in her heart, she did not think she had the strength to begin mourning Greg. "Also, your suitcase, some insulation, the survival kit from the raft."

"My suitcase!?" John asked abruptly. "My gun is in there!"

"I saw that," Mary said and pulled it from underneath a pair of John's shorts. "I say we use the first twenty-four bullets on hunting some food, but leave one in case he," here she gestured toward Sherlock, "makes us so crazy we have to shoot him."

John chuckled at her dry humor.

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On the other side of the island, Molly had returned to the beach and began her own hunt for washed-up debris. After an hour, she sat to rest and take inventory: plastic shards, foam insulation from the plane, and a suitcase--Sherlock's suitcase.


	4. Chapter 4

His cloths, she hung on stakes of drift wood she stuck in the sand so the soft breeze and warm sun could dry them. In his brushed leather shaving kit was a toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream and balm, a straight edge razor, and his cologne. Molly closed her eyes, remembering how his face was always so smooth, and when he walked by her his wave of musky seductive scent lingered. For a moment, she sat holding the bottle to her nose and melted into her memories of Sherlock.

Carefully, Molly recapped the bottle and set it on the large flat rock she sat next to. Molly froze when she saw it, a black moleskin notebook. It was tattered and worn and the sea water had soaked the book, but the high quality paper maintained its integrity when Molly gently opened it. She looked at one of the first pages: he had dated the upper left corner, March 12, 2012--over two years ago and almost a month after she helped him fake his death so he could pursue Moriarty. When she read the first sentence, it was clear this was not a notebook for a case or notes of the crimes of Moriarty's web. It was a journal, a diary of Sherlock's thoughts.

"The plane turned south, and I can no longer see England. Baker Street feels as though it is on the other side of the planet rather than a few miles behind me. I will return, John. I will come back to you, Molly."

Although the 13cm x 21cm page and Sherlock's small handwriting allowed for more to say, that was all he wrote that day. Molly read, and re-read the last sentence, hearing his voice in her mind, "I will come back to you, Molly." Her heart pounded eagerly to read more, but the wet pages must be preserved and she could not trust her shaking hands not to tear the precious text. In the bright sun, Molly lay the notebook open on a dried log. Her eyes burned, but she steeled herself away from tears.

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The small net she made out of sticks and one Sherlock's shirts yielded her wriggly and unsatisfying minnows but she ate them ravenously. Molly estimated it had been greater than twenty-four hours since she had eaten. After every pass of her makeshift net, she looked up at the notebook on the shore, drying slowly in the high humidity. "Can I really read Sherlock's thoughts?" Molly spoke aloud, her voice raspy with disuse. Another pass in the water and three minnows went down.

"Hell yes, I can! If he could read every damn thought I had written across my face, I get to read his!" Molly threw down the net and it splashed her legs. "Of course Sherlock Holmes will come off heartless toward me," she picked up the tool begrudgingly, "That is, right until he returns from a two year exile, starts to flirt with me like he is actually having feelings, and he ends up dead and I am left stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean alone with only the thoughts of the man I can never have!"

It felt good to shout, the calories now fueling her energy and she continued talking to herself, "I guess it's really not that much different than being home; living a one-sided love story with a man that doesn't know he is the love interest." Molly sighed at the insanity of talking to herself and looked once more at Sherlock's notebook, "The only difference now is that I can say aloud how I feel about you, Sherlock. And that I'm stranded in a prison disguised as paradise, alone without you."

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The sun was now sinking lower behind the mountain, threatening to take away the only light source by which to read, and Molly had still not opened Sherlock's notebook. She sat frozen in fear and anticipation at what was said in the journal and she still felt guilty for deciding to read Sherlock's personal thoughts. But as evening approached, Molly put on a tasteful sweater Sherlock had packed along with a small drop of his cologne, tucked herself up against one of the smoother rocks on the upper bank of the beach, and opened the notebook to the first page. 

"January 28, 2012

Time. Limitless and limiting. Relative, subjective to consciousness. A salve to heal all wounds, it is said. For John, I hope the latter is true. In time, he will see, he will understand. I am not sure how long this mission will take or even if I will survive; the web is far more complicated than even Mycroft knew. 

I am eager to leave; eager to leave the chaotic emotions clouding my mind. It will be too much to see John's pain even one more time. And Molly, with her I have become disoriented; the level of bravery she has shown, the risk she has taken, and her resolute understanding of what I have done has shown me a level of friendship and fealty I've never experienced apart from John. She deserves so much more than a 'thank you,' or anything I would otherwise like to offer her. In time, she will come to see... Will I come to see? Perhaps, in time."

Molly looked up at the fading sunset colors hanging low over the calm water. "Sherlock..." Molly spoke to the sea, her heart was racing with the injustice of it all. The fact that he was questioning his feelings for her back then, right when he was leaving for a suicided mission, stole the perspective of her empathetic heart. Was the man who felt nothing of sentiment beginning to feel the first pangs of emotion for someone, only to have the time they could have had together obligated away from him in the form of a mission to save the country? 

The sun had set and the darkness denied Molly of another page. She hugged the notebook close to herself, rested her head against the smooth rock she was leaning against, and took a deep calming breath. "It now seems we both have all the time in the world; you in the eternal quietness of death, and I alone in the land of the living."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy to have colonialfire24 now beta reading my chapters. We have her to thank for the grammar corrections, the clarification of topics, and overall support with the story!

Sherlock woke late in the morning, stiff from having passed out on the ground, his mouth sticky with thirst. He groaned as he turned on his left side and John and Mary looked up from the two fish Mary had managed to hook, "Apparently Mary's training as an assassin included bush survival," John thought to himself, "or perhaps it was a skill learnt long before she was the Mary I know."

"Ah," John said in a tone that mimicked the poshness of a narrator in a nature documentary, "and here we see the panther awaken after his midnight hunt. Bruised and battered he--"

"--I see even though we are on an isolated island together and not at Baker Street, you still insist on doing that," Sherlock interrupted irritatedly. He looked down to find the wounds on his arm clean and neatly dressed with gauze and bandages.

Mary noticed Sherlock raise his hand to inspect the bandaging wrapped around his head and covering part of his blackened eye, "There was antiseptic in the first aid kit and we put it on the worst of the burns, on your shoulder and the side of your head. There is enough to do another application tomorrow after we clean them."

"They don't appear to be infected," John added, "And now we know we have clean water, I believe we can keep the infection at bay." John watched Sherlock shift his shoulder forward and back, wincing only slightly. He was very familiar with Sherlock's body and how he moved: "Poised and rigid, ready to pounce," John thought and banked the description for the next opportunity for a nature narrative. 

"It moves pretty well, Sherlock," John said referring to the range of motion Sherlock was now exploring without the bandage around his torso supporting his shoulder. "We'll have you take it easy the next couple of days."

"How simple their brains are that they think I'll be here 'in the next couple of days,'" Sherlock thought to himself as he ate his portion of fish and watched John and Mary begin to erect a rudimentary shelter. 

"I will be leaving in the morning to trace the perimeter of the island and look for useful debris, survivors, or bodies," Sherlock said matter of factly but John did not miss the hesitation in Sherlock's voice at the word 'bodies.' John let out a small derisive sigh; he knew this was coming.

"Sherlock," John said, setting down the vine he was going to use to secure the structure, "how about you and me cool off and go get more water?" Without waiting for Sherlock to reply, John hoisted him to his feet and supported Sherlock's arm around his shoulders.

Mary watched the two men leave and smiled endearingly when John held Sherlock's waist before he faltered over a fallen branch. "He may not be that perceptive of crime and detective work, but John exceeds when it comes to empathy," Mary said with a loving smile and fixed the knot John had been attempting to tie earlier. 

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John and Sherlock washed in a shallow pool. The canopy of trees, the black volcanic rock forming the pool, and the white sand that trapped the warmth of the sun that was able to peak through, kept the water temperate and refreshing.

John reviewed the scars on Sherlock's body, and wondered how many he kept hidden on the inside. Going by what he had seen happening between Sherlock and Molly, it appeared that Sherlock was experiencing a new kind of wound, a wound the kind Molly had been nursing for years: a scar that was desperately wanted but never cut the flesh, and so a reserved spot remained bare on the marred heart.

"You were falling in love with her, weren't you?" John asked quietly, and when Sherlock did not turn when he had heard the personal question, John walked through the waist deep pool and placed a hand on Sherlock's back. The warm contact and meaning behind it seeped into Sherlock like water onto dry sand. Unexpectedly, Sherlock released a half sob and a half painful sigh. 

Overcome by Sherlock's sudden release of raw emotions, John moved quickly in front of Sherlock and searched him with concerned eyes. Sherlock's head was down, but his eyes were unseeing of the nakedness of their bodies, the sun beams piercing the water, or the white sand covering their toes. John reached out and gently gripped Sherlock at the neck and jaw and lifted his head, "Mate...?"

When Sherlock's eyes met John's, another small sob escaped Sherlock's quivering lips and his brows rolled in anguish as deprivation shone in his eyes. Instinctually, John embraced Sherlock. They stood there together in silence but with his ear pressed against Sherlock, John could hear the wild drumming of Sherlock's heart. After a few moments, John finally felt Sherlock's arms around him, and Sherlock rested his head against John's. 

This uncharacteristic outpouring of sentiment surprised Sherlock, but John's comforting presence unrelentingly convinced him that they were right in the moment. "How do people stand this?" Sherlock said as he let go of a deep breath, but even as he asked the rhetorical question, Sherlock knew deep inside that he is a better man for the feelings he now has, even if they are tearing him apart. 

Sherlock gently placed a hand on John's shoulders and stepped back, keeping his hand on John. "I have to know if she is alive, John," Sherlock pleaded. "As irrational as it sounds, I feel her. Why else would I still be this way, if she weren't alive!? So...so...?" Sherlock inexpertly attempted to make John understand the phenomenon going on inside him. 

"Magical?" John suggested. "Spiritual?"

"Stimulated without the drug. Electric without an energy source. Falling without fear of the landing," Sherlock abstractly corrected, and John could not help but chuckle when he saw that love brought out the poet in Sherlock. "John, you know I can survive on my own. I saw the radar before it went out, and the island will take only a few days to circumvent," Sherlock said and then gripped John's neck and jaw like John did to him moments ago. "You know I'll go anyway, but if something happens and I never do see you again, won't you give me your blessing?" Sherlock said and John was stunned by the new depth in Sherlock's eyes. 

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The refreshing wash and the calories now working in his body greatly improve Sherlock's strength but he and John walked with their arms around each other anyway. Chuckling boyishly at Sherlock's most recent description of love. "Its like I have developed a sixth sense, John," Sherlock persisted with the epiphany surely he alone in the universe had experienced.

"Yes, Sherlock," John feigned exhaustion, "That is how everyone feels when they fall in love."

Mary turned around sharply at the sound of John's voice and the topic it carried. 

"Mary!" John said a little to cheerily for their destitution, "Sherlock will leave tomorrow to map the perimeter of the island." Mary's jaw dropped.

"You can't be serious, John!" Mary said and gestured towards Sherlock, "We need to stay together. He needs to recover, and if those burns get infected--"

"--Mary." John uncharacteristically interrupted, "He has a doctor's clearance." He heard Sherlock smirk.

"And where is the water?" Mary said knowing this would put an end to this unusual display of the depth of John and Sherlock's friendship. 

"Shit!" John exclaimed and rushed back down the path to fetch the water bottles. Sherlock actually laughed out loud; a joyful sound the lonely forest had never heard before.


	6. Chapter 6

"Yes...a little closer...almost there," Mary encouraged John as he attempted for the seventh time that morning to light a fire with the lens in his reading glasses. Sherlock lowered his head close to the emerging smoke and blew gently on the base of the dried material. Small flames appeared and they all exclaimed with success.

"Quick! More wood!" Mary said excitedly. "This is excellent! We can send up smoke!"

"Another reason I will be leaving in the morning," Sherlock said: Mary still needed convincing of his excursion the next day. "I will be able to send up smoke on all sides of the island, especially the north side; the shipping routes in this area primarily run north and south, therefore we will create smoke signals here on the north end of the island and on the south end." Sherlock finished, "And let's not forget Mycroft. If I know my brother--and I do, better than he is aware--the whole of Her Majesty's Navy will be searching the area before sundown."

As they settled into the primitive comfort of fire, they all contemplated the chance of a rescue. 

Mary interrupted their silent reflection, "I still don't think you should go alone, Sherlock."

"It has been noted, respectfully acknowledged, and proved an unnecessary concern," Sherlock said and placed another dead tree branch onto the fire. When he looked up and saw the derision on Mary's face, he added, "It will only take a couple of days, Mary." Anticipating her counter argument, Sherlock continued softly, "Mary, I have to do this. If there is any chance of rescue or survivors, I have to try: it is because of me this happened, because of me, Mrs. Hudson is dead...That the other's could be..." 

In Sherlock's mind the damn word, "Dead!" chased a small voice that whispered, "Alive!" 

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The next few entries were spaced several months apart, and flipping through the pages, Molly saw that only a handful of the pages had writing on them, although all the pages were numbered in Sherlock's erratic handwriting. The third entry was dated November 12, 2012 and contained Sherlock's thoughts on family and strangely, bees.

"...the impressive way each colony has a functioning hive because each individual insect knows their role to help the hive survive. 

My current surroundings have been encroaching on my thoughts, hijacking my mind. What would it be like to have this? A second home abroad where the air smells of warm honey and lavender, the summer days last long lazy hours, and the evenings are quiet and without the noise of a city in chaos threatening outside the door. Somewhere I could bring a family. My family. A wife, a mother to children, my children?"

The entry ended here. Molly was held immobile for a long while by runaway thoughts of honeymooning with Sherlock somewhere along the Mediterranean Sea, watching children with dark curls play in a stone pool of an ancient chateau, and making love to him blanketed by the starlight.

Several entries following November 12, 2012 were quite brief and non-sequitur to anything Molly could piece together. Single words or phrases left as fragments of a thought that were never explored: "Heterogeneous Atmosphere," and, "Barititsu Defense," for example. However, the last two entries promised more.

Molly paused. She could not bring herself to finish his last words. These pages were the last encounters she would have with Sherlock; everything that follows will be imagination. She got up and paced along the late morning waves, taking her time to wander freely in the fantasy Sherlock's words created. 

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It was early in the morning, just before the light of the sun would fill the sky. "Two days, Sherlock," John repeated to Sherlock as he hoisted the small pack around Sherlock's good shoulder. Inside the day pack that they found inside John's suitcase, they put two one liter bottles, the leftover fish from the night before, one of the lenses out of John's reading glasses, and three bullets to use the gunpowder within so Sherlock would be guaranteed to get a fire lit. "If we don't see smoke or you in two days, we are coming after you."

"Agreed," Sherlock said without mockery in his voice. The gesture of friendship John offered by allowing Sherlock to explore the island alone sat heavy in Sherlock's heart and he would never again belittle John's feelings. 

"If, within the few hours your wounds begin to show signs of infection, you will turn around immediately," Mary did not pose this as a question. Sherlock's eye had turned black and blue, but the swelling had gone down some, and his shoulder and burns did not seem to hold him back much. These positive signs of healing did not entirely convince Mary. 

Here, Sherlock did toy a bit with his and Mary's relationship. He moved to stand at attention and only winced slightly when he raised his shoulder to salute Mary. "You have my word, ma'am!" he said and winked at her when John turned around, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's snark. 

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It was peaceful. Sherlock could not deny the calming effect of the small waves that tumbled over his toes. Nor could he as easily ignore the pleasing contrast of the lush green jungle rising with the volcanic peak of the island, and the Robin egg blue of the clear sky. It was moments like this in his exile that inspired him to compose in his notebook. Without the actual pen and paper, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. It was several stories high and the glass walls allowed him to survey whatever he chose, be it the skyline of London or the stone pool and surrounding forest of Château de Paradis. He sat down in the chair behind the desk, the only two pieces of furniture in the large room.

"June 6, 2013," Sherlock wrote in the top right hand corner of his Mind Palace notebook. Sherlock swallowed and looked up at the sky and beach before him; this entry was making his hand tremble.


	7. Chapter 7

"Aristotle wrote, 'There are three sorts of people: those who are alive, those who are dead, and those that are at sea.' 

Mycroft always teased me about my pirate adventures and an east wind sinking my ship, sending me down to deep waters. Well, big brother, will you join the game and rescue the mutineer? Will this now be my fate? Forever alive, dead, consumed by the sea."

Sherlock looked up from his pen to see Molly standing by the window of his glass room, looking out over the ocean. "...Which one are you, Molly?" Sherlock said aloud. Her hair was down and when she turned to him, the dark brown curtain veiled part of her shy grin.

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Molly read Sherlock's second to last entry over a breakfast of minnows and a chalky root she had discovered. It was dated May 23, 2013, a day after he surprised her at Bart's.

>

"Mother always told me growing up, "We all have those days." Days when we don't want to wake up, days when the slightest breeze feels like it will blow you over the edge. Days when we question the paths we chose. Before I left she said again, "We all have those days, Sherlock. Keep your head up because they are fleeting and weak against your spirit." Abstract ideas from a mathematician, surely. 

Well, Mother, I did as you advised and I am home. But it is not the same Baker Street as I knew it. John is no longer here and I am not who I used to be. I stood on the rooftop of Bart's before going to Molly. The city quivered like a taut string, humming with the release of energy, but when I held her, a new chorus of notes struck within me. I was defenseless against the melody of her joy. I've never known that feeling; the enormity of being the sole source of someone's happiness in a moment, made whole by the gravity of each other. 

I should have kissed her then."

As far as Molly was concerned, in that moment the cruelty of the universe knew no greater damage than the destruction of her heart. It was too much to know that Sherlock had once thought of a future with her as his wife, as the mother of their children, as the one he loved. Her anger at the world boiled over and Molly screamed, recklessly she ripped out the last entry and threw Sherlock's journal as far away from her as she could. It landed in the sand just near the limits of high tide.

Fury, indignation, and unbalanced emotions seethed within her breast as she stood in the sand catching her breath. Slowly, as if waves of the ocean were gently nudging her to action, Molly crumpled the page, turned her back to the journal, and brazenly resolved herself to her survival. The last entry would kill her, it would only cause her more pain, make her to suffer more in the bleak future of her isolation. 

By dusk, Molly's hands were sore and blistered but the primitive bow drill she was able to fashion out of Sherlock's shoe laces and a stick produced the ancestral flame of survival. Before long, Molly had a sizable bonfire and several stakes lit and stuck upright in the sand. The blaze of the fire danced before the setting sun, and the breeze sent sparks over the shallows of the turquoise ocean.

Calculating and purposeful, as if preparing for a right of passage ceremony, Molly changed into one of Sherlock's shirts. It was the deep plum color that Molly remembered struck such a contrast against his pale skin; it was overlarge on her and hung loose over her shoulders. She tied the long tails around her middle and rolled up the sleeves.

Molly approached the fire clutching the crumpled page in a shaking hand. The shallow waves tumbled delicately over each other, and the distant crashing of the breakers sounded like applause cheering her on. The crackling fire in front of her shielded her against the encroaching darkness. Molly looked fiercely at the fire and cast the paper into the heart of the flames. 

In the smoke, Molly watched her thoughts and emotions of Sherlock drift over the shallows to create a ghostly image of Sherlock. Floating above the water, he waited for her to release him to the ocean, to the past. 

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The sun was beginning to set when Sherlock made his decision; he would stop, make a quick fire to light a torch and continue past the point just ahead of him, there he would build a fire to signal John and Mary.

The tide was coming in but the shallow waters and the reef in the distance kept the waves small and languorous. Sherlock, however, felt a growing urgency increasing within him. It was an explosion expanding and contracting with the quickened pace of his diaphragm. He was nearly round the point and the adventurous energy of discovery lighted paths in his memory of his childhood exploits following a pirate's map to buried treasure. 

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Molly walked past the fire to the water's edge and tightly closed her eyes against the darkness; she could feel the grip of her thoughts and images of Sherlock hold tighter as if they realized she was casting them out. She was now standing in the water up to her knees. Whispers of, "I will come back to you, Molly," and, "Should have kissed you," carried over the water in his phantom voice. Deeper she walked, the water now up to her waist, Molly reached out battling with the panic to keep him in her heart and cold reasoning urging her to let him go.

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When Sherlock came around the point, the small fire half a mile in the distance shocked and mesmerized his mind and veiled the presence of a person standing in the water.

Running now as fast as the sand and his jarring shoulder would allow, Sherlock called out, "Is anyone there!?" He was answered only by the padding of his feet and heavy breathing. "Hello!?" he gasped, "Is anyone--" Stopping abruptly, Sherlock quickly looked back at the rock he just leapt over. No, not a rock, a notebook. His notebook. It fell open in his hands to a missing page, his last entry torn roughly from the binding. 

"Molly..." Sherlock whispered and looked to the fire. Eruptions and explosions more fantastic and extreme than fireworks were released with the knowing that it was Molly's hand that had ripped the page away. For who, but the person scorned by the emotional words he wrote, who, but the subject of his words would tear out the last page? The page that declared his love for her. Sherlock clutched the notebook and sprinted towards the fire.

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"Molly!?" she heard Sherlock's vision call to her. "Molly!" distant desperation echoed from his lips. 

"Sherlock!" Molly pleaded as his image faded from her...yet, his voice was becoming more solid.

"Molly!!" Frightened by the reality of Sherlock's voice, she turned and saw him running on the beach. The light of the torch he was carrying flickered and shone on his battered face. He called out to her again and this time she answered. 

"Sherlock!!" he heard Molly cry, and Sherlock released a sob of relief to hear her living voice. Molly crashed through the water to him, the light of her fire reflecting off her skin making her look like a glowing spectral being emerging from the sea.

He slowed just enough so when he caught her in his arms they fell to their knees in the sand. His torch thrown into the waves, Sherlock cradled Molly's face inches from his own.

"You're alive!" "You're alive!" Molly and Sherlock both gasped in disbelief as she touched his face, he stroked her hair, and their lips met. The thrill of holding his resurrected body against her own electrocuted her senses. Molly kissed his lips and muffled his own disbelieving words. Sherlock's lips were chapped and his whiskers rough against her skin, but Molly only pressed herself harder against him.

"Mm--Molly..." Sherlock mumbled against her mouth, "Molly." Sherlock pulled her face away, and for a second, his eyes drank her in. He brushed away a tear rolling down her cheek and he smiled. "You didn't read the last page of my journal, did you, Molly?" 

"What?" Molly said, caught off guard by the specific question. "How could you know? How could you possibly know I've read your journal?"

"Because if you had read the last page, you would have known that I was coming for you." Sherlock said and he took her hand, helping her stand on shaking knees, and walked her up to the small shelter she had built. It was primitive: a small lean-to made of fallen branches and the group covered by palm leaves. Sherlock lay Molly down on the flat leaves and leaned in close to her ear. "Do you want to know what was on the last page?"

Sherlock tucked a loose strand of hair behind Molly's ear, "I know it by heart." Sherlock softly kissed her lips and said without waiting for an answer:

"June second, two-thousand and thirteen,

For too long, I've been in too deep within myself. Only when she shattered me did I realize the emptiness of my shell. Will she tread lightly among the jagged pieces? Will she place them gently back into place? She is my only hope of being whole again.

Molly, I am coming for you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow the last chapter felt lacking, so I sat down real quickly and wrote a follow up!

At first, he was gentle, remembering the rules of chivalry. Softly, Sherlock caressed Molly's skin and held her head while he kissed the delicate skin on her neck. Despite it being years since he had a true desire for a woman, Sherlock moved with well-mannered control. Uncle Rudy's carefully cultured gentlemanly etiquette was almost forgotten, however, when they had walked past the fire and Sherlock discovered it was his plum shirt she was wearing tied high on her waist and hanging loose over her shoulder.

Molly's mind and body were alight with a disbelieving awareness of what was happening. Normally, erotic caresses and passionate kisses would cause her eyes to roll back in her head, but she could not keep her eyes off of Sherlock because his restrained moans and quiet huffs of breathlessness were for her. 

"Molly...?" Sherlock stopped his practiced fingers from unbuttoning his plum shirt and looked up into Molly's eyes: she was staring at him as if he were a ghost. He realized now that she had not moved for several minutes while he indulged himself with her body.

The light of the fire danced in the reflection of his aquamarine eyes and they shone with lust that was quickly changing to concern. Slowly, so as not to alarm her further, Sherlock moved up Molly's body until he was looking directly down into her eyes. He knew he must look quite the opposite of his normal polished self, what with the sea salt in his hair, the lack of food and water that no doubt caused his face to look drawn and gaunt, and the borders of his red and raw burns exposed underneath the bandages Mary was able to apply.

"You read my journal, Molly," Sherlock whispered, implying no accusation.

"--Sherlock, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't've," Molly said breathlessly, thinking he may snap any moment. She still was not quite sure all of this was not a dream, and she was afraid of this unfamiliar and amorous version of Sherlock. 

"Shh," he soothed her growing confusion. "I'm not upset you read it." Sherlock grinned at her skeptical look and playfully kissed her still lips. He was rather enjoying the hold he had on her acceptance of reality. 

Seriously now, he leaned close to her ear, "Do you want me to confess, Molly? Confess that I've withheld my feelings from you, that I've denied us, maybe years of loving each other?"

The low rumble of his voice and the salacious way he whispered 'confess' released her awakening like the breaking of dawn, but when he leaned back once more and looked at her, Molly's heart broke. His brows were furled with defeated self-accusation and remorse, hoping for forgiveness and acceptance. 

"Forgive me, Molly," Sherlock begged. "I spurned you when I thought what I was feeling was weakness. I forced us to love each other apart. Forgive me, Molly. I love you." He moved slowly to kiss her, giving her plenty of time to deny him absolution. 

Without hesitation, Molly rose to meet his lips in a crushing embrace. She wrapped her arm around the back of Sherlock's neck, tightened her grip making it impossible for Sherlock to pull away, and turned him easily onto his back. 

The weight of Molly's hips instantly recalled the arousal Sherlock had felt moments ago, and Molly mercilessly rocked them hard against him. He let out a loud involuntary moan that made the heat within her grow. Molly leaned over him, using the angle to press her own arousal against his firmness, she whispered against his lips, "I love you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! This has been a fun one!

The helicopter was two thousand feet above the surface of the ocean and, therefore, saw the sunrise first. Internally, the captain regaled himself for the privilege. He and his crew had been pulled from a war drill for a rescue mission. In fact, his crew and every other rescue crew in the southern hemisphere had been pulled from their regularly scheduled duties for this mission. There was his crew and others that had been drilling east of the Marshall Islands, a fair few were coming from north of the Solomon Islands, some from Papua New Guinea, and even a cruiser from the Philippines had been deployed.

"This must be something big," the captain thought to himself and he refocused his attention to the horizon. "For Queen and Country!" his patriotic heart declared.

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"John," Mary said as they sat around the blazing fire they had kept going all night, "can you imagine a man like Sherlock in prehistoric times?"

John looked from the beautiful sunrise to Mary, cocked his head, and burst out laughing. "The idiot," his shoulders continued to shake with the giggles he was trying to restrain so he could finish his sentence, "would probably be clubbed to death for deducing the chieftain's wife and calling everyone 'goldfish!'"

"Of course, not before he revealed to the crowd that his executioner wore women's loin cloths!" Marry added playfully.

As John settled, he thought seriously on the question. "Honestly, Mary," John said after a few silent moments,"I don't think our species would be as far along if there weren't people like Sherlock in those times. We wouldn't be who we are without him." John reflected on the cane in the back of his closet sitting unused for years. 

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In the distance over the horizon, growing and shadowed clouds waited for the sun to rise and illuminate their colors. Sherlock sat at the edge of the water and let the tumbling waves stretch out and wet his toes, and he too waited for the sun. He would wake Molly in two minutes, just before the show: he could not let her miss out on a sunrise like this one promised to be. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock let his mind wander into a daydream of life on a deserted island.

Molly paused on her way down the beach to Sherlock. The sight before her was one she never wanted to forget. A canvas of early morning grays, blues, and purples translucently demonstrated the depth of their atmosphere. On the horizon, a storm was either forming or dissipating leaving clusters of heavy clouds waiting for the sun to make them bloom into color. Sherlock sat with his back to her, thinking about what, she had no clue in the world.

Sherlock's elaborate imagination was interrupted by a chilled feeling on his shoulder. Molly handed him the water bottle and sat down next to him in the sand. "What are you thinking about?" Molly said companionably and took a small sip from her water bottle. 

"How it would break my heart if you missed this sunrise," Sherlock said grinning and he turned to share his smile with Molly; he made a note to do that more, if not for her happiness, then for the sole purpose to see her smile back at him.

"When did you become so sentimental about sunrises?" Molly jeered and kissed his cheek.

"Today, when I knew it would be the first of many with you," Sherlock said while still gazing at the horizon.

Molly looked at Sherlock and grinned silently. When she did not reply, Sherlock turned to her and saw her joyful smile. Sherlock kissed her forehead, pulled her hips closer to him, and wrapped his arm around Molly's shoulders. "Shh," he said just before she spoke. "The sun is coming up," and she followed his line of vision as he pointed out to the sea.

As the sun lit up the sky like fireworks, Molly rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder and they sat there in silence and watched the most wonderful sunrise they would ever see in their lifetime.

After minutes or hours passed, Sherlock squeezed Molly's shoulders and said, "John and Mary survived." 

Molly turned her head sharply to Sherlock and after a moment's hesitation for shock, said, "What!?" very loudly in Sherlock's ear, and sprang to her feet. "You're kidding me," Molly said standing in ankle deep water not knowing what to do with her hands, so she threw them in the air. "I can't believe this. Why didn't you tell me sooner!? Are they far? We have to go, now! How could you not tell me!?"

"Molly...Molly," Sherlock stood and tried to calm her down and finally shouted, "Molly!" Again, he chuckled at how adorable this small woman was when she was all worked up, but apparently the grin that appeared on his face was not what Molly wanted to see now. 

Before Molly could respond, Sherlock nabbed her up in a crushing hug. He let her squirm a moment because it endeared her to him more, then loosened his grip. She was looking up at him with a defensive scowl on her face. Sherlock cradled the back of her neck with one hand and held her firmly to his body with the other and said, "Was it wrong that I only wanted us to exist in the world last night?'

Molly shuttered when he tilted her head and his fingertips tickled the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, "It--it was the most amazing feeling in the world." 

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Sherlock and Molly had been walking hand in hand on the beach all morning. They stopped for a measly lunch and filled up on water. "I estimate that we could get to the other side of the island by nightfall if we hurry. Are you up for hustling up a bit?" Sherlock said. 

"Really?" Molly said skeptically. "Are you sure you got a good look before the radar went down?"

"Certain," Sherlock said and she followed his lead down the beach at a much faster pace. 

After a while, somewhere around late afternoon, Sherlock stopped at a rocky point and looked around the small cove. A few steps behind him, Molly came up to the rock Sherlock was standing on, squinted her eyes against the sun and tried to see what had captured his gaze so intently. 

"Greg!" Molly exclaimed when she saw the man wearing oversized women's sunglasses, lounging cross legged against an old fashioned suitcase underneath the shade of a palm tree. He was smoking one of Mrs. Hudson's soothers.

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The celebration that night was like none other. Although they had only a small amount of fish, dusty roots, and unripe bananas to eat, it was a feast for the friends that thought they had lost each other. Molly and Mary hugged and chatted like best friends, and Sherlock, John, and Greg joked, rough-housed like kids, and threw wood on the fire as if trying to signal the British Royal Navy.

Which they did.

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Mycroft waited for them at a private gate at Hong Kong International Airport. From there, they would all take a direct flight to England. When he saw his brother exit the gate, Mycroft was unable to hold back his relief. Civility be damned. Mycroft embraced Sherlock with a brotherly fierceness and held back a sob. Sherlock understood and held his brother with the same intensity. 

"Ah, ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened his suit. It did not escape his notice that Sherlock was carrying Molly's bag and holding her hand. "Right, if you will follow me, we will board our flight for home. Sherlock, a word if you please," Mycroft said and pulled Sherlock along so they could walk ahead of the group and not be heard. 

"I don't think Mummy and Daddy will ever forgive you for this one, Sherlock," Mycroft teased like a big brother who could not wait to tell on his little brother.

"Hmm," was Sherlock's only reply; he found it was a better strategy to say as little as possible when Mycroft had the upper hand. 

"The island you so cleverly found was, incidentally, heretofore undiscovered. The territory is owned by the Republic of Kiribati," Mycroft said as if he were presenting to the Queen. Sherlock, half listening, looked over his shoulder to be sure Molly was still close; he had done that four times already, Mycroft noted. "They sold it to me for a good price."

They both stopped walking and when the others caught up, Mycroft handed Sherlock the deed to the island. Sherlock took the thick envelope mouth agape; he looked at his friends, then to Molly.

"What is that, Sherlock?" Molly asked innocently but offered Mycroft a suspicious side eye: anything that rendered Sherlock speechless should be approached with caution. Sherlock gave Molly a brilliant smile and said, "It is our island."


End file.
